


into exile

by still_intrepid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allies, Angst, Drabble, Fall of France, Gen, M/M, Resistance, World War II, comrades in tragedy, friendship or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:13:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_intrepid/pseuds/still_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poland understands what France is going through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into exile

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after the Fall of France 1940.

_"I know,_ " Poland says, when France comes to him as pale as death and he’s struck with sympathy he thought he hadn’t the heart left to feel.  "I know," because he does, he knows how it is - although  _he_  never had to sign any damn paper - he knows the lightning and the ravaged cities and the panic, and all felled before the incomprehensible methodical rage of the assault.

"Yes."  France is falling apart.  "Yes, you do… oh, God, Poland!"  He’s falling apart, no smoothness and charm left to him, voice raw, clenching and unclenching useless shaking hands.  

Poland dashes over on impulse, guides France to a seat before he collapses.  “Hey, shhh, it’s —”  It isn’t alright.  He sits down awkwardly next to France, even more awkwardly putting his arms around the taller man as he breathes the best and only comfort he knows: “Don’t you give up.  Like, don’t you  _dare_.  We are so stronger than this.  We’re fighting.”

France makes a miserable sound, and draws Feliks closer, working his hands into his hair distractedly, the strands like a talisman or a rosary, like something familiar, just as if they really are familiar and beloved of each other.  If he’s able to find solace in this intimacy, Poland understands. In France’s embrace there is ever something of his enduring tenderness, and everything of need, and he breathes brokenly, head bowed.  And Poland understands, and it’s not unwelcome, but as he rubs France’s shaking shoulders, he’s staring dead ahead and his eyes are dry and the coldest green.  And he’s thinking of sabotage, and he’s thinking of machine guns and Enigma machines; of hitching a stolen boat to Britain and taking to the skies again and damn well  _getting his country back._

At length, France’s trembling decreases and he looks up with eyes as blue as September sky.

"We’re fighting," he whispers.


End file.
